Overdose
by Military Mechanic
Summary: All he can think about is what happened the day before. All he can see when he closes his eyes is Rex's pale face, his blue-tinged lips, his still chest. And now, sitting at the still-weak boy's bedside, heart hammering in his chest, he cannot stop the tears -angry and relieved and scared- from falling.


A/N: Okay, so this may not make perfect sense. It's a scene that will hopefully get into a roleplay I'm doing with my lovely sister (hidanbutt over on tumblr) and we thought it up and I just had to write it down. So, you all get this little diddy. Information needed? They're both in college and, yeah, that's it. It's a college-based story, and I hope you all enjoy it!

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"No! Stop that! Stop laughing!" snaps Weevil, and doesn't Rex understand? He must not because, when Weevil brings his hand down onto the starch sheets of the hospital bed, he jerks his head back.

Rex looks surprised, and tired, but mostly surprised. "Weeves?"

"It isn't funny!" says Weevil, and there's a note of hysteria creeping into his voice now. He's desperately trying to cling to that anger that he'd felt before, that desperate fury, but it's fading fast and fear is creeping in to replace it. "You were _dead_, Rex! _Dead!_"

The other man freezes, and he looks at Weevil with wide eyes. Then he gives a slight shrug. "Relax, Weeves. This isn't the first time. It's happened -"

"I know! I know it's happened before! I found that out already, again, not from you!" Weevil doesn't get any pleasure out of the way that Rex winces, nor from the muttered threat in Mako's direction. He doesn't get any pleasure out of anything right then.

All he can think about is what happened the day before.

All he can see when he closes his eyes is Rex's pale face, his blue-tinged lips, his still chest.

All he can hear, over and over and over, echoing in his brain like the wolrds worst song, is the horrible silence that had filled the dormroom while he waited for the ambulance to arrive. He still remembers how clammy Rex's hand had been, how tight he'd been holding it, how fast his heart was beating. And it was doing that again, hammering in his chest, beating like it was trying to get out.

He swallows thickly, mouth and throat suddenly bone dry. Weevil clenches his hands together, and the palms feel disgustingly slick with sweat. "Mako and Espa Roba told me about that, too."

Rex frowns down at the crisp, white sheet. Then he lifts his head, wrinkles his nose, and gives another tired shrug. "God, I don't know why I tell that bastard anything."

"You're missing the point, Rex! God, are you - are you so _stupid_ that you don't get what happened? That you don't get what it's like?" asks Weevil and, God, is his voice wavering? He pauses there and tries to calm his racing nerves but finds, quite disturbingly, that he can't. "You weren't breathing, you neanderthal, you weren't breathing!"

And something in the way he says that must catch Rex's attention. The uncaring smirk dissappears from the dinosaur-duelist's face, and is replaced with worry.

"Hey, Weeves?" he asks, pushing himself up slightly. The bed creaks beneath him, and his arm still stings like a bitch. The spot where he had shoved the needle deep under his sting itches, and it's a fight not to reach over and just dig his nails in and start scratching. "Are you - are you crying?"

To Rex, that's a ridiculous thought. He's known Weevil since they were in middle school. It's been almost eight years. Not once has he seen the other boy cry; not when he lost his Great Moth card, not when the bullies in high school became especially vicious, not when he had to choose between his studies and dueling.

Never.

For Weevil, it's the utter most form of embarressment. To cry in front of someone is to show his heart and open himself up, completely and utterly, with no walls or barriers. It's a sign of weakness, and that's something that he hates to show.

Yet, now, he cannot get the hot tears to stop.

"I walked in there to talk to you and you were just laying there, Rex! And - and you weren't breathing and you have no idea how much that scared me!" Weevil finally says, and then he can't stop talking. The words just come pouring out and more than half of them don't make any sense but, for once, that doesn't matter. He just says anything and everything that comes to mind, and then his brain brings him back full circle and all he can focus on is the fact that: "you weren't breathing!"

"Hey, hey!" yelps Rex, and he's at a loss for a moment. It wasn't a lie when he said that he'd over-dosed before, twice in fact, but it was different then.

Before, no one had cried over it.

No one had cared.

Yet, here Weevil was, actually _crying_ over him.

"I thought that you were _dead_, Rex." croaks out Weevil, and there's some morbidity to his voice that has never been there before. "I thought that I had lost you."

There's a pause and Weevil keeps crying and Rex's arm still itches - and then he shifts, hospital robe scratching against his skin, and reaches out. He curls his hand around Weevil's wrist and isn't the least bit surprised when the blue haired boy tries to squirm out of his grasp.

"L-let go of me!" yelps Weevil, and he cannot stand how easy it is for Rex to just brush all of those worries aside and _touch_ him.

"Come to raptor," coos Rex, and then he gives a sharp tug and Weevil comes sliding out of the uncomfortable chair and onto the equally uncomfortable bed. The bluenette lets out another surprised yelp and, when Rex pulls him literally onto his lap, wrapping both arms aroundhis back, he goes stiff.

Weevil is shaking, Rex notes, and that doesn't feel right to him.

For a very long moment, Weevil just crouches there. His head is on Rex's leg, his chest pressed against his thigh, and both legs curled up underneath him. Then, he gives a shuddering sigh, and curls his hand tight against Rex's own, tugging the slightly younger boy's arm close to his chest.

"Hey, c'mon, Weeves." says Rex, resting his free arm on the other mans back. "It's fine, I'm fine, you're fine."

Weevil doesn't say anything. Just bites down on his lip and tries hard to stop those traitorous tears from falling.

So Rex keeps speaking.

Just pointless things really. Mostly saying that it's all fine, that things will get better now, that they should just go to sleep. When Weevil doesn't protest, Rex uses his free arm to tug the boy up, uses his legs to squirm down slightly.

They both curl up there, in that hospital bed, and it's the first time they've ever done something like this. That Weevil has ever been so open. Rex wraps his still sore, still itching arm around Weevil's torso, and Weevil still has a death grip on the other arm. Like he's afraid that Rex will dissappear if he lets go.

But that's irrational, Weevil tells himself, and he's anything but irrational.

Still, as the clock ticks idly by on the wall, as Rex's chest rises and falls behind him, he doesn't let go. He decides very firmly that, irrational as it may be, he is going to indulge himself in that silly fear just this once.


End file.
